Thanks, March Madness, for bringing my ineptitude to light.

Right now, the sports world is going all Mickey Rourke kinds of CRAZY with the INSANITY that is MARCH MADNESS! In honor of the festival of full court press LUNACY, I am going to unload a little of my own El Donzer Loco on your lap like it's hot.

I have handpicked for you Ten Nutjob Things in My Life That I Assumed to Be True, But Then Turned Out to Be Quite False.

1. Surname Stupidity - I believe you know I'm married, yes? Well, long before I was a member of the Donzer party, I had a maiden name that became quite a popular joke on some hilarious stylin' t-shirts back in day. You probably had a zany neighbor down the street who got just a little bit too blitzed at the neighborhood potluck, fed Bootsie, the schizophrenic German Shephard, Schlitz from a water bowl, felt up your mom, and rocked this t-shirt. Have you pictured the shirt yet? That's right: It was the classically hilarious Big Johnson tee. This, however, is not even the source of the stupidity. You see, I was a little white girl Johnson, but apparently I didn't notice. For, I thought - nay - I believed that each and every Johnson was my cousin, and I told everyone. Including my entire first grade class. That Magic Johnson was my cousin. Right. Ridiculous. I argued this point to the death, and I religiously wrote Magic each and every Tuesday night to check in and inquire as to when he was going to return my letters and come for a visit. Imagine how pissed I was when, on a very special episode, Maury Povich ripped open that fated envelope, looked into my innocent eyes, and said, "Earvin...is ...NOT your cousin." My idiot vanilla life has never been the same.

2. Sex Education Screwiness - Pardon the pun. I believe we've already established

I wasn't the quickest on the uptake. Well, lemme just tell you my mom might have handed me the What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls just a little too late. You see, I was a pretty damn big fan of Barbie playing. And, I couldn't help but notice that Barbie and Ken's clothing had the ability to be removed. Sexual experimentation ensued. Wanna know how Ken knocked up Barbie 4,847 times, begetting the lovely Skipper over and over again? Well, he'd simply rub his flesh-colored tightywhitied phallus all over Barbie's mysteriously un-nippled boobies. I swear, until I was fifteen I was sure that's how I was created. Preposterous.

3. Deep Vein Dementia - Alright. I am going to be quick with this one. I can

honestly tell you that for the first sixteen years of my life, I pretty much subsisted on Chicken McNuggets alone. I don't know if it was a disarmingly defensive case of denial, but I was convinced that the - gulp - veins included in the tertiary butylhydroquinone / polydimethylsiloxane / chicken (?) mixture were actually better-for-you bits 'o protein. Hahahaha. Naïveté. Dumbass.

4. "Leave Us Alone, You Loon" Looniness! - Oh, 1993: You were a simpler time. The Real World, she was but a dewy, doe-eyed youngling, just beginning her second season of life in Los Angeles, CA. We've established the occasional mental lethargy of my past; however, even I, a fourteen going on fifteen year old lass, could recognize that stupid Beth Stolarczyk was an abominable casting choice. She was whiny and needy and the lamest of the lame. But, at least I recognized the fact that soon her season would come to pass, and she would be out of my life for good. Oh, God: what funny jokes You play! Yet another case in my life in which I was oh so wrong. For it seems just when I have stopped hearing her haunting cackle in my head, that Skanky Stolarczyk pops back into my life to make another nails down the chalkboard cameo. Even ridiculous Boot-Scootin-Boogie-John thought Beth was the worst. I-seriously-wired-my-jaw-closed-like-an-ass-Tami recognized Beth was crap. I did the math. Beth was 24 in 1993, so that makes her like 68 years old now! Why won't you just leave me alone, Crazy? We get it: Fake boobs are the tops! Now Get Off My MTV!

5. Mephistopheles' Melodious Moronitude - I feel that the more I share with you about my past, the more you picture yourself sitting behind me wiping your boogers on my back during social studies class. Why don't I lean over for you: here's more dumb to fuel the fire. Remember INXS? Remember that song Devil Inside? Well, let me just say, I waited for years for God to punish me for bearing witness to Beelzebub's message. I knew if I didn't switch the station from Y-102 within 6.66 seconds of hearing Michael Hutchence breathe heavily into my ear about my sinful capabilities, then lightning was sure to strike me down. I was such an idiot! I made it eleven seconds once, and after two weeks, I fully recovered from the electroshock. Take that, Satan!

6. Monkey on My Back Mania - This one really stings. I have sworn over and over - a thousand times over - that I would quit you, The View. My God, what you ladies do to me! I was ready to abandon you for good, but then someone upstairs heard my pleas and Debbie Matenopoulos was taken out and dropkicked to cable. I was back. But, just when I was ready to jump ship again - for Lisa Ling had finally filled my nausea threshold to capacity - she was gone, and I was lifevested aboard yet again. The pattern continued. A slew of grating guest hosts, Rosie, Elizabeth (thank your lucky stars you become impregnated frequently, or else you'd be the impetus to write my permanent eviction notice, Betsy), the list goes on and on. But something keeps me coming back. Betsy, Babs, Sherri, Whoopi, Joy friggin Behar, for crying out loud! I thought I could leave you! Why must I always need more?

7. Spelling Star Screwiness - This is getting pathetic. Okay. When I was in elementary school, I was kind of convinced I was the hot shiz based on my damn fine (and I do mean damn fine) spelling prowess. Yeah. I got a little high-horse-big-britches-shut-the-f-up-kid all up in here, and I needed to be knocked down a notch. You see, I believed - I KNEW - that my in-yo- face spelling skillz would one day land me in a high-powered, multibillion dollar salaried career in which I'd be spelling my junk off each and every day. Did I mention that this blog is eggsalady is that omnipotently high-paying job? Prophecy: Fulfilled!

* Here's a little kick to the nuts happy ending: I won't get into the nitty gritty details, but there just so happens to be a very juicy story involving me being the 3rd grade spelling rep for the entire school, wearing my Valentine's Dress, in a fast-paced, empassioned spell-off, and - oh yeah - me violently spewing a stomachfull of Conversation Hearts all over the spelling wanker to my immediate left. Embarrasingly pathetic personal comeuppance? You betcha.

8. Colored Sugar Crappitude - I am just sorta piggybacking off my last story, but, for whatever reason I believed that there was never, ever a limit to the amount of Fun Dip deliciosity one could physically ingest. I am here to tell you that six packets full of pink and purple love and six Lik-M-Aid sticks later, my mom's carpet begs to differ.

9. Neuterific Nuttiness - Again - no pun intended. The gist of this lesson learned? Well, I was kind of under the impression that when the nuts go away, the pencil can't play. Boy, was I ever wrong. I have a seven pound weiner dog who'll gladly whip out his magenta magic to prove it to you. No nuts? No problem. Thanks, Timmy.

10. Lupine Lunacy - Finally, what has been perhaps proven to be the most painful lesson of all. I think I'll just write this in code to save myself a little embarrassment.

Dear Wolf,

I guess this is it for me and you. I thought that you and I were destined to be together; I thought that it would be forever. But, it seems as though you have changed your locks and gotten a new number. I guess I can see now that the world is not ready for our love. Lesson learned. For real this time.

Love,

W.A. Donz.

p.s. - I'm kidding, W! Call me!!! Please!!!

Wow. Cleansed. Thanks for holding my hand through the madness.

Perhaps you need a little rinse. How about visiting here for a soapy cleansing: humor-blogs.com

A spoonful of knowledge.

Well, probably a little more inanity than knowledge, but, that's neither here nor there. Apparently 2008 is the year of the footnote, and rumor has it there might be a thing or twelve that I say that causes a little confusification for my BFF, the reader. I guess thanks to Patrillo / McCain 2008 and the Straight Talk Express, mystery is a thing of the past.

So, pals, at the behest of the masses (ahem), here are some Occasionally Asked Questions and their oh-so enlightening solutions.

The name of this fair blog: Is it "this blog is eggsalady" or "this blog is eggs a lady"? Well, reader, I'd say that's open to interpretation. Originally, this blog was intended to epitomize all that eggsalady stands for. I guess I was under the impression that everyone had seen the breathtaking cinematic masterpiece that was robbed of the 1988 Academy Award, Big Top Pee Wee (whatever, Rain Man). Not to give the plot of the powerful film away or anything, but Pee Wee's suitor is trying to impress our stud by making him a picnic lunch, including (but not limited to) an eggsalad sandwich. How's it taste, PW? "Mmm. Eggsalady." To me, eggsalady is, I guess, just pretty sweet. You know what else, though, I realize is pretty frickin sweet? Egging a lady. In my head, that seems like it would be hilarious. So, you know, your choice.


Your name seems a little dumb. What is What's a Donzer supposed to mean? Sigh. This one is, I guess, a little weird to hold on to twenty three years or so later, but Ramona Quimby was always kind of my hero growing up. If you don't know who Ramona is, then you have some serious literature reading to do. Anyhoozle, here comes the pepperjack: I always thought the following story was really endearing (awwwww). You see, in my favorite Ramona book, Ramona the Pest, five year old Ramona gets a little mixed up. I'll let the omniscient answerdeity Wikipedia explain this one to you, as it does a pretty good short and sweet job, and I am not feeling like using the mindpower to paraprase at the moment. Here she is: "[Ramona]decides to impress everyone with what knowledge she [has] and tells her older sister Beezus to get a "dawn-zer" to provide "a lee light" to help Beezus read. This confuses sister and, eventually mom and dad, until they all realize that Ramona has misunderstood the opening lyric to the Star-Spangled Banner: 'Oh say, can you see, by the dawn's early light.' Pretty great, huh?



Did you really name your poor kid Cornflake? Well, that does seem like something I would do, but, no; I didn't name her Cornflake. It's Suri Apple. She kind of issued forth from my womb looking a little like a flake o' corn, and when it's time to awaken, "Wakey wakey, Cornflakey" she doth hear. Hence, Cornflake.



Did you really name your poor dog Timmy? Yes.





Why aren't there pictures of you on this blog? How do I know you aren't a thirty nine year old world-weary convict named Lonnie who is suffering from a case of the doldrums? Hmmm. You're weird, reader. I dunno. It feels a little Jerky Jerksmith being all la la la look at me. Besides, the guys in cell block four would be even more feelsies than normal if I started posting my Glamour Shots all over the information superhighway.


Who and what are the "BSGs"? Good question. Here's a clicky to bring you back to their introduction. If you're lazy and don't feel in the mood to get your click on, in short, the BSGs are part of my core fanbase. They are first-rate computer gurus; they are Battlestar Galactica Gangstas, they are BSGs. They just so happen to be my muses for Sexy Programmer Thursdays, which can be found here and here , if all of a sudden you are ready to let clicking back in your good graces again.


Speaking of Sexy Programmer Thursdays, from where are the SPT candidates plucked? That's easy. Heaven.




How you're not chewing and all: break it down for me. This subject is still a little embryo-ish not to sting. So, I'll explain in haiku, entitled A Dentist Sliced my Lingual Nerve and Diced My Heart.


A Dentist Sliced my Lingual Nerve and Diced My Heart
Goodbye, wisdom teeth
Mygod you just shivved two nerves
Thanks a lot, asshole




What does "there's an ass over my shoulder" mean? It's basic perfection. It's Eden in your backyard. It's a jaunt on a tugboat and a disembarkment at the promiseland. Succinctly, it's Wolf Blitzer. Aaaaahhh.

Well, I'm sure there's more, but I am distracted by Kim Kardashian's heinie at the moment and I can't seem to concentrate on this task at hand. If there's anything else I can clear up, let me know. I'll open up my brainfile of Afterschool Specials and see if I can produce an answer for it. Because, to me, you're worth it. Kisses!

Travel down the road and back again, won't you?

Oh, hi there, reader. I'm glad you're here. Sit down for a second. I want to tell you how I feel about you. I can tell that your heart is true; to me, you really are not only a pal, but also a confidant. Because I thank you for being a friend, I want to make sure I am here for all of your needs. And right now, I can't help but notice that you can't help but notice that there is a little bit of the old politicking going on in the US of A. "What does all of this mean?"; "These candidates - why, it's all so tricky - how will I ever decide which one is the candidate for me?"; "How is it that just when I thought Wolf Blitzer couldn't get any sexier, he goes and lobs a come-hither look in my direction and my kinkometer explodes, yet again?"

Relax, reader. I am here to take your hand and help you through all of your mental pickles, for together we will select the candidate for you by breaking it down with our handy Which Golden Girl is My Candidate? Guide.

It's only polite to start with ladies first, but we'll go ahead and begin with Dorothy, anyway. Our resident feminist, Ms. Zbornak married a ladies man back in the day who did a little bit o' stepping out on our heroine. But a teensy complication like an adultering ladies' man who refuses to accept a little thing called aging and can't ever seem to keep his self-serving trap shut ain't gonna stop our Dorothy. Often wordy and long-winded, our "gal" Dot is bloody intelligent and clearly has a case of the booksmarts. Highly ambitious, she tends to overpower others with her forceful opinions and dominating personality, often coming off as cold compared to her softer, friendlier housemates. Does Dorothy sound like she'd do a kickass job ruling the Free World? If so, then, cast your ballot for her political counterpart, Hillary Clinton. It doesn't take a village to realize that Hilly and Dotty are like the Bobbsey Twins, co-valedictorians of Gloria Steinem U. In the senior "predictions" from Senator Clinton's high school newspaper, classmates predicted that Miss Rodham was destined to become a nun named “Sister Frigidaire." Aaah. I'm sure Mother Superior Dorothy would be right there in that convent, too, frolicking with our possible Commandress in Chief down the icy path to righteousness.

Well reader, maybe your ideal CEO of the nation is a little more seasoned, perhaps a little more gray in the curtains, if you will. Our girl Sophia Petrillo is certainly a little more chargrilled, and, as she reminds us often, she's seen some real hardships in her life. Some may view Old Lady P as somewhat crotchety, a tiddly-tad curmudgeony, a smidgety-smidge quick to snap back in the face of some hemmorhoid yammering in her direction. While she garners respect from most, still it's not hard to see glimmers of a little of the crazy left over from our favorite geezer's Shady Pines days. Often our cherished great grandmother drew the ire of her Ice Queen daughter, and frequently Sophia got in some hot water because she just was not conservative enough for everyone's taste. Well, Sophia is her own person, and she'd say to hell with your judgments! Is Sophia 's brand of ballbusting sass your dream leader o' America? Then Good OLD Johnny McCain is the man for you. Tough and dauntless, Senator McCain sure seems like he could kick a terrorist in the nards and never look back, just like our fireball Sophia. So, if you go for age before beauty, go McCain in '08.

What's that, reader? Enough with the sanity, you say? Well, alrighty-roo. Why don't I offer you up a little bite of kooky, maybe a sip of some unhinged? So, your ultimate leader is a little endearingly batshit, I hear. Then you need a little bit of Rose Nylund running around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Our Rosie just won't conform to a pre-set mold. She's a mold of a whole different flavor - perhaps the little green jiggly squares of jello you're so tempted to place on your tray at the Piccadilly. She's a friend of the environment, she's a friend of soft, cuddly puppies, and she's a friend of oldy old people. Often, fair Rose causes some serrrrrious shenanigans with her rainbow sized dreams and unicorny ideas. These dreams and ideas have been known to rock the boat of some others in her path in the past, but she won't apologize for her dingy outside-the-mainstream mindset. Readers, are you up for a little bit of Nylund-like outside the box thinking, maybe a leader who's a little greener than the competition? Then our boy Ralph Nader is the kook for you. He may be the ultimate party crasher, but he's sure to show you a good time. A vote for Nader is a vote for Wooo Woooo!

All this political-jabberjawing making you feel a little randy? You need a smokin' head honcho with a little sex appeal? Then grab a glass of Kool Aid and turn the car around: it's time for us to veer down the Blanche Devereaux path. Our smooth-talking, velvet-tongued lady is animal magnetism through and through. She'll draw you in with her luxuriously mesmerizing words and charm you as she evangelizes you with her hopes and her dreams. When Blanche whispers in your ear, you believe, dammit! Yes, we can, Blanche! Yes, we can! She has the brains and beauty to capture the crown in any pageant, and just because sometimes she's a little light on the substance, well, who cares? She's got charm! She'll hold your hand when you need a little compassion, and you'll wish it wasn't only your hand she was holding. Is the Divine Ms. D. the cat on a hot tin roof for you? Then Barack Obama is your man. Wow, what a man. Why don't you let him preach to you? I bet you won't regret it.

Friend, I hope that you now feel a little more confident in your decision. The way I see it, you can't really go wrong with any one of our Miami ladies in office. Oh, and about Monsieur Blitzer...all I can say is, when you've got it, you've got it. And man, does that Wolf got it.

A Haiku

We are leaving for the hospital in a couple of minutes, and I wanted to get one last short thought to you for the day.

Blitzer? I Hardly Knew Her

Political wiz.

Exit polls make those eyes dance.

Hungry like the Wolf.